


in the cherry blossom's shade (there's no such thing as a stranger)

by thirteenblackbirds



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Edelclaude Week (Fire Emblem), F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, metaphors galore, not a happy ending sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteenblackbirds/pseuds/thirteenblackbirds
Summary: There is a lone cherry tree in the imperial gardens at Enbarr that, once a year, weeps white-pink tears when spring winds kiss its blossoms.EdelClaude week 2020, days 1 and 2: secret / scars & flower / wind.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	in the cherry blossom's shade (there's no such thing as a stranger)

There is a cherry tree in the gardens of the imperial palace at Enbarr. Just the one and it is old enough that no one really knows how it got there or how it came to be so alone. It may predate even the establishment of the Church (though it would have been blasphemy to suggest that it predates the Goddess).

Each spring in Harpstring Moon, the exact date unpredictable (though there are always countdowns undertaken by experienced gardeners and amateurs alike) the tree will burst into bloom, its branches laden with pale pink flowers. Royals, courtiers, and servants alike would wake up to a fragrant, vibrant, ephemeral cloud descended down upon the garden, showering everyone with gifts of soft delicate petals. Outside the palace walls, women and children would gather as near as the guards would permit them to get to gather handfuls of the fragile flowers, taking care not to bruise them by holding on too tightly. The cherry blossoms would then be lovingly pressed or dried or dipped in resin, for those that had the means, to try to hold on to their fleeting beauty. 

Then, as quickly and intensely as they appeared, a gale from the sea or a spring thunderstorm would sweep it all away in a matter of hours, the ancient tree weeping light pink tears until it was again bared by the elements, a carpet of petals at its roots.

It used to be one of Edelgard’s favourite times of the year. She would wake up before dawn every day of the month until that magical morning when she could see, even before peering out the window of her garden-facing bedchamber, the sunlight filtering into her room rosy with the reflection of the long-awaited bloom. The royal bakers would make exquisitely dainty desserts out of the flowers, fragrant and delicious.

After the bloodless (at the time) coup that came to be known as the Insurrection of the Seven, during her years of hiding in the cold, distant capital of Faerghus, the habit of rising with the dawn, but only in Harpstring Moon, stayed with her but there was never anything to greet her other than weak, wintery light – the winters in Fhirdiad often stretched into the final days of Harpstring Moon.

Upon her return to Enbarr, she is not given the chance to see the cherry blossom tree until months later, after she emerges from the darkness, her body ripped apart more times than she can remember, her hair as white as the first snowfall in Faerghus, her mind ringing with the endless screams of her ( _dead all dead_ ) siblings. 

Sometimes she wonders if she is in fact still alive and not pale ghost that haunts the palace of her childhood. 

She is grateful that Hubert is there to ground her and remind her that, even if she is a ghost, she will be a vengeful one, will not rest until she has righted the wrongs done to Fodlan and to her family. The thought is what keeps her going through the searing pain of the Crest of Flames burning itself into her still-maturing body and the nightmares that welcome her every time she closes her eyes. She learns to sleep less, blink less. 

She moves out of her childhood bedchambers and into the suite designated for the imperial heir apparent. Her father, on the rare occasions they were permitted to see one another, grows paler and frailer with each visit until she is almost afraid to touch him for fear that the pressure of her fingertips, no matter how gentle, would bruise him. 

By Pegasus Moon, her life within the four corners of the palace walls begins to slowly resemble less that of a convicted death row prisoner as her uncle apparently satisfies himself that she can be controlled without an around-the-clock security escort.

In the early hours of on morning, when the moon is sinking but the sun has not yet risen, after she claws her way out of another hellscape of half-remembered, half-imagined terrors, Edelgard barely takes the time to pull on her boots before fleeing outside, gulping down lungfuls of the fresh, frigid air desperately. The cold helps to shock her awake completely and, reluctant to return to the deceptive warmth of her bed, she finds herself wandering to the gardens that she has not seen for nearly five years. 

The cherry tree is still in its place, but she barely recognizes it, she realizes with a bitter shock. Its great trunk is hollowed out, an ugly blackened crevice at its heart like it had been set on fire from the inside, the beautiful wood scored with deep grooves. The only remnants of the proud crown of branches it once sported are jagged broken peaks. A few thin, disheveled branches grow crookedly to the sides.

Heartbroken in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to feel since the night her last sister died, Edelgard approaches the tree, a hot prickling in her eyes, and reaches out a hand to rest against its ravaged bark. It hurt her more than she expects to see the ancient tree so badly scarred. But it is alive. She is alive. And even if she has to grow sideways or strive for the sun along a crooked branch, she will survive.

Later, she finds out that lightning had struck the tree the year of the Insurrection and her flight north with Arundel, nearly splitting the massive trunk in half. In the chaotic aftermath, it had been neglected and had only managed sparse, tentative displays that were a pale anemic version of its previous splendor. The blooms that do occur fade even faster, barely able to cling on in even the lightest of breezes.

* * *

The first time she sees Claude von Riegan at Garreg Mach, across the press of excitable students thronging in the cathedral for the matriculation ceremony, she gets an incongruous feeling of a wind picking up, though the high-arched nave is still. The archbishop is about to give her welcome speech. Just before Edelgard sets her attention to the woman she will declare war on within the year, the mysterious new Riegan heir turns and meets her eyes. She’s caught and his teeth flash in a smile that she does not return as she tears her gaze away. She thinks she smells cherry blossoms – the fragrance of fleeting bittersweet beauty – and feels a nostalgia for something she doesn’t yet understand.

She quickly learns that the man Duke Riegan announced no more than a few months ago as his long-lost grandson and heir is someone to be wary of. His quick smile and sharp eyes remind her of a hunting night fox, which is an apt likeness considering how many times she’s run into him in the library late at night. If he’s looking for secrets, she doubts he will find any there. The stronghold of the Church, Garreg Mach’s cache of books is as pristine and orthodox as the lilies Rhea wears in her hair. 

Edelgard develops an aversion to lilies that year.

* * *

He is the one to approach her. “The imperial princess of Adrestia, right? What a lucky coincidence. All three of the next generation here at the same time. What are the chances?”

“Slim, considering Duke Riegan had no heir as of this time last year.” She does not hide the skepticism in her eyes and voice. A good offense is the best defense. Openly signaling that she finds him suspicious might help to deflect any urge to pry into her affairs.

He laughs so easily she can almost believe it is genuine. “What can I say? I was a delightful surprise.” Leaning in across the dining hall table, he winks. “What do you say, Your Highness? Friends?”

Against her will, she is intrigued. Most of the students, even in her own House to say nothing of those under different banners, give her a cautious berth. The rumours surrounding her father’s throne, the Insurrection, the simultaneous deaths of all her siblings (not to mention her own demeanour) do not exactly encourage close camaraderie from her peers. She doesn’t believe for a second Claude has no ulterior motive, but so direct an overture of friendship certainly marks him as bolder, or more ignorant, than many of the rest. She doubts it is the latter. Not a simple man. 

“A friend is better than an enemy,” she replies, a non-answer. Someone has hung a makeshift windchime on a tree outside and it rings distantly in space between her words and his, a slightly discordant set piece to their first conversation that she will remember later when Bernadetta gifts her with a handcrafted windchime that she hangs in her study in Enbarr.

“True,” he agrees cheerfully, stealing a sweet bun off her plate in a deliberate assertion of familiarity. “Given a choice, I would certainly not wish to be your enemy.” The smile he levels at her around his bite of her lunch shows teeth. 

Would she give him that choice?

* * *

_He_ doesn’t give her much of a choice, apparently deciding that she is the second most interesting puzzle there, after their enigma-wrapped riddle of a mercenary-cum-professor. Most of their conversations happen late at night, when flickering candlelight and silver moonlight soften the edges of his cutting gaze. She imagines it helps to smooth out the sharpness of her posture as well. 

He is a far better conversationalist at night, she finds. Less deliberately jocular, more incisive and thoughtful – or rather, more willing to share those latter two traits instead of hiding them under glib smiles and flirtatious remarks.

Speaking of which. “I hear there’s a pool on when Ingrid finally challenges you to a duel.” She is the first to speak, for once, but she has been trying to write the assigned essay on the history of Crests for what feels like eons and hating every second of it, so she has a good reason to want a distraction.

His head immediately pops up from where it’s bent over a thick vellum-bound tome, eyes gleaming. Apparently he could use an interruption as well. “Oh, is that right? Did you put a bet in?”

“No,” she says, propping her chin up on the back of one hand. “But I think Sylvain managed to convince Caspar and Petra to go in.”

“You’re not concerned about his corrupting influence on your House mates?”

She blinks at him. “Why should I be? If they want to have a bit of fun guessing at when Ingrid’s patience with you will finally run out, I hardly see how that is of any harm. Personally, I think it’s rigged but only because Sylvain seems to have cause to know better than most what the precise limits of her patience are.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that.” His hands go to their customary perch locked behind his head. “I would have thought you’d disapprove of gambling and all similar vices.”

“As long as it is not in excess, I don’t see how it is any place of mine to judge. I trust their judgements and, besides, everyone needs something to look forward to.” 

The familiar curious twinkle is back in his eyes. “And what do you look forward to, princess?”

 _Overthrowing a corrupt millennia-old theocracy and reforming the entrenched social structure of a continent._ “I’d like to restore a cherry tree at the imperial palace.” That seems innocuous enough and she doesn’t realize until the words are out of her mouth that she genuinely means it. A wave of homesickness for a place and time that no longer exists washes over her and she must look at least mildly stricken because Claude sits up straighter, his arms come down to rest on the tabletop, a somewhat bewildered concern replacing the mirth in his expression.

“A cherry tree?” he echoes. “I’ve never seen one before. Where I grew up, trees had to be sturdy in order to survive and it sounds like this one might not fit that bill.” He’s talking to give her time to recover, she knows, and is grateful for it. “What is it like?”

Haltingly, she tells him about the beautiful storm of flowers that arrives like a spotlit diva on a blackout stage and exits just as tempestuously, gone in a flurry of pink and white the minute any winds or rain sally in. She tells him about the week, or sometimes even only a few short days, that feels like magic, when people often stop in the middle of tasks or conversation to breathe in the fragrance on the wind or lift their heads as though drawn by a magnetic charge to the grandeur of the full cherry blossom bloom. The candle nearly burns down to its stub, flickering more erratically as it prepares to gutter out, by the time she realizes how much she’s talked and pulls up short on an anecdote about childhood sweets, a memory of spun sugar on her tongue.

“Apologies,” she murmurs, looking down at her gloved hands. “I didn’t mean to talk your ear off about a tree.”

“I liked hearing about it,” he replies, the candlelight highlighting his jawline and bringing out the liquid-emerald tone of his eyes. “You said you wanted to restore it. What happened to it?”

It takes a real effort not to clench her fingers into a fist. “It has some scars, from a lightning strike, and then we were too busy to give it the care it needed. But I hope that with the proper attention, it will heal.”

He waits until she looks back up at him to say, with a confident smile, “It will. I hope to have the chance to see it in person someday.”

* * *

When the Golden Deers win on Gronder Field, she is disappointed but all she can think of is speaking with Count Bergliez after the mock-battle. She has a real war to plan for. She does not miss the weight of curious eyes on her back even as she hears his voice, carried over by the wind, loudly extolling the absolute necessity of a celebratory feast.

“I need you to be ready by Pegasus Moon,” she tells her Minister of Military Affairs. It is not a request and, despite his frown, Count Bergliez nods.

“We will be.” Then, he adds with grudging respect, “With Hevring’s hand on the books, the Prime Minister will not suspect anything is out of the ordinary.”

“Good. I will send word when I am to return. Speed will be an absolute imperative. Hubert will provide you with the list of names.”

“Princess, time to go! Unless you’re going to be a sore loser and _not_ toast to my decisive victory?”

Count Bergliez spares a disdainful glance over her shoulder and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. That would not be becoming of the mantle she will soon assume and which she needs this grizzled warrior to already see on her shoulders. Sharing one last meaningful look with the count, trying to convey both command and gratitude, she turns on her heel to walk back to where Claude is strongly tempting Hubert to envelop him in Miasma, sportsmanship be damned. 

“You earned the win this time, Claude,” she says, catching Hubert’s eyes briefly and giving the slightest tip of her head in response to the question she sees there. Her eyes flickering back to Claude’s, she continues with a faint smile, “Congratulations. Let me be the first to toast to your winning House.”

There is a question in Claude’s eyes as well, but she does not have an answer for him. 

The wind at her back smells like the beginnings of winter and a calm before the storm.

* * *

The wind combing through her hair on the night of the ball at the end of Ethereal Moon marks one of the last times she and Claude exchange pleasantries. She has a half-composed letter to Count Bergliez and Count Hevring tucked away in a hidden compartment of her clothing trunk. Her pieces are almost completely in position.

He finds her on the bridge overlooking the ravine, her breath forming puffs of clouds in the chill of the night. 

“Hiding from your admirers?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Oh, Lorenz is more than happy to step in for me.” There’s an unspoken _In more ways than one_.

“As Ferdinand is for me,” she says, with a tip of her head towards him. Neither of them know then (though Edelgard suspects it, not without sadness) that the quiet laugh they share is to be their last. They stay silently on the bridge, watching the moon and listening to the faint strains of music and laughter floating out from the ball. 

In two months’ time, she will be the new Adrestian Emperor. And then… and then…

* * *

The cherry tree is not yet in bloom when she ascends to the throne, Enbarr still caught in the throes of frosty winter. Her trip is short, accompanied only by Hubert, but there is an army waiting for her in the city. Count Bergliez does not disappoint. They make a clean sweep of the names on her list before nightfall on her first day as Emperor.

Then, she gives the order to prepare to march on Garreg Mach before she heads back to her last month as a student of the Officers Academy.

Claude congratulates her with a new wariness in his eyes and she accepts it with a new coolness in hers. The road she is on now has no space for candlelit conversations and moonlit smiles.

* * *

There is no bloom that year, after the Empire battalions capture Rhea and force the Church to abandon Garreg Mach. 

* * *

Once she secures control of the capital, Edelgard takes care to prune the cherry tree’s branches meticulously, packing the earth around the roots with fertile soil, tending to it carefully between endless war councils and battles on the frontlines. 

In the fifth year of the war – the year winter keeps its hold on Enbarr until well into Harpstring Moon, the northern winds' vengeance for the Empire’s conquering of their western homeland – the tree blooms late but huge and magnificent, as though making up for lost time, in the middle of Garland Moon, a sudden and brilliant spark of joy amongst the increasingly grim tidings from the war front. 

* * *

Claude sees the cherry tree – his first – as he leads his troops into the imperial palace, making for Edelgard’s throne room. The long winter and late spring thaw had fueled increasingly loud murmurs about the Goddess withholding her favour in anger at the war-hungry Adrestian Emperor and the disappearance of her Archbishop. Claude refrains from pointing out to the monks and holy knights that Rhea had been missing for five years without any delay in spring until now. If the Goddess has truly been roused to anger, her reaction time is a bit slow. He doesn’t say any of this, of course, because he is depending on the Church’s strength toward his own ends and he does not want to get booted from the exceptional strategic base that is Garreg Mach. 

Gripping Failnaught tensely, he scans the grounds for signs of enemy reinforcements or springing traps. Hubert may have fallen, but he would not be surprised at all if the man left behind some posthumous gifts for anyone silly enough to believe that being dead and no longer being a threat were always the same thing. So when he catches the swirling movement of pink out of the corner of his eye, he has his bow half-drawn before he realizes that it is only the wind marshalling a flurry of tiny blossoms into a merry dancing whirlwind. He catches a light hint of fragrance over battle-acrid smells of smoke and blood and guts.

And for just a minute, in the midst of days of fierce fighting, on the cusp of the final charge in the war that the woman waiting for them began half a decade ago, Claude breathes deeply and appreciates the sight of those pristine flowers, blown from their perch at the height of their beauty, aglow in the moonlight. His mind casts back to the memory of flickering shadow in candlelight and lilac eyes aglow with a wistful fondness.

Later, as he walks up the steps toward Edelgard, Failnaught nocked, the wind picks up, gusting into the courtyard and, as it combs through the scarred gnarled tree in the imperial garden, the last stubbornly clinging blossoms fall in a final, dying shower of pink.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a beautiful Kobayashi Issa poem who, like many great Japanese poets, wrote hauntingly about cherry blossoms.
> 
> I took some creative liberties with the timing of the spring cherry blossom bloom to fit with the timeline but it's a fantasy land with pegasus and wyverns and magic so I figured the suspension of slight disbelief for cherry blossoms in June was probably fine??


End file.
